Blood on the Tracks
by Lila2
Summary: “You’re born into this life paying for the sins of somebody else’s past.”


**Title:** "Blood on the Tracks"

**Author:** Lila

**Rating:** PG-13

**Pairing/Character:** Logan

**Spoiler:** very minor spoilers for "Rat Saw God

**Length: **one-shot

**Summary:** "You're born into this life paying for the sins of somebody else's past."

**Author's Note:** Short look into Logan's mind after his confrontation with Aaron, and a semi-companion piece to my previous fics "Black Milk" and "Blonde on Blonde" because they all fit inside the same canon in terms of Echolls family history. Apparently I have a thing for titling Logan stories after Dylan songs and the trend continues here. Also a special story because the summary and cut come courtesy of my ultimate, Bruce Springsteen's, "Adam Raised a Cain." Hope you enjoy!

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**"I made an unforgivable mistake, but I am not a murderer."**

You know the secret to being a good liar, lying to those around you, lying to yourself. You lie to yourself first and foremost and then they're not so much lies as they're your version of the truth, a happy ending to your not so happy life. In your reality, your father never beat you, and he loved you the way you wanted to be loved. Your mother never drank and drugged and forgot her way out of a bad marriage, never jumped off a bridge and hit the water so hard her body broke and shattered and disappeared forever. Your girlfriends – any of them – never cheated on you or dumped you or broke your heart. You close your eyes and your life is like something out of a family sitcom, and at the end of the day everyone you love is laughing and smiling, everything you've done wrong and they've done wrong is forgiven, your life has morphed into something worth living.

When you woke up on the bridge, staring up at a star filled sky, you told yourself it was all a mistake. The bloody knife in your hand wasn't yours, Felix wasn't dead, you weren't responsible. You were not a murderer. You were not a murderer. You were not a murderer. It played over and over in your head, like a broken record, a CD skipping, your iPod on the fritz, and you tried to convince yourself that if you said it enough, thought it enough, _believed_ it enough, it would be true.

But the truth – the real truth – is that you don't know anymore. You want to say that you know yourself, that you know what you're capable of. You could never kill another person, never shove a knife through someone's insides, never twist it around and sever veins and arteries and organs, never take someone's life. You're a sweet boy, a kind boy, a _good_ boy. The boy who mourned Lilly and your mother and what could have been with Trina couldn't be a killer. The boy who loved and trusted and defended Veronica couldn't be a killer. The boy who let bygones be bygones with Duncan couldn't be a killer. Murder is your father's territory, your father's game, your father's crime.

Except you are your father's son.

**"I just snapped. Logan, I lost it."**

You tell yourself you're not a vengeful person, that you don't hate Duncan even as you forgive him and get back together like two middle schoolers who barely passed first base. You pretend you don't resent him for having two parents who lied to him and betrayed him, but moved heaven and earth to protect him because they loved him. You pretend you're not jealous of him for stealing the girl you loved, the only person in your life that seemed to love you. You pretend it didn't feel good to crack his nose and make him feel half the pain you've felt, that you didn't enjoy watching him look guilty.

You tell yourself you're not an angry person, that you simply snapped when you threw the lamp against Veronica's living room wall, that it was just an involuntary reaction when she drew back, face recoiling in horror, looking at you like some kind of stranger. You pretend it was pent up need, because she wasn't putting out the way you were used to and you loved her and waited for her and she just threw you away like yesterday's garbage. You pretend you didn't feel a whole lot better when the lamp smashed against the wall and you got to destroy something the way she destroyed you.

You tell yourself you're not a violent person. You pretend you didn't feel a quiver of satisfaction when your boot collided with Weevil's jaw, that you didn't feel a hint of pleasure when your toes slammed into the bones of his face and he landed spread-eagle and helpless at your feet. You pretend you didn't enjoy the power coursing through your veins when he waved the eviction notice in your face and you shoved your hands against his chest, his heart beating solid and steady against your palm, and realized how easily you could have stopped the beating if your foot had hit just a little bit higher.

You tell yourself you're not your father, that just because you share the same eyes and nose and mouth, doesn't make you him. You pretend that each time you hit another person, feel the press of bone under your fist, it isn't the same as the belt wailing over your back, the cigarette's crushing against your arm, the feel of his fist smashing your nose into bits. When you scared Veronica half to death, you pretend it wasn't like locking her in a freezer and setting her on fire, trying to kill her father, taking away all the people she loved. When you shoved Duncan into the lockers so hard you heard his head crack, you pretended it wasn't like the ashtray slamming into Lilly's head, that the blood pouring from his nose wasn't like the blood creeping across the Kane's pool deck, that the blank look in his eyes didn't rival the dead gaze in Lilly's.

You are not your father. You are not your father. You are not your father. It plays over and over in your head, like a broken record, a CD skipping, your iPod on the fritz, and you try to convince yourself that if you say it enough, think it enough, _believe_ it enough, it will be true. Your father was arrested for murder and there's no solid proof but you know he did it. You were arrested for murder and there's a witness claiming he saw you do it. Two days ago you would have accused him of lying, of looking for a quick buck from a poor little rich boy, but now you're not so sure. You don't remember that night, not after Weevil's boys pulled you off the railing and kicked the living crap out of your ribs. You don't remember rumbling with Felix, you don't remember sliding the knife between his ribs, you don't remember his blood pooling around you as the life slipped out of him. But that doesn't mean it didn't happen, that you didn't break him the way your father broke your mother's soul and broke Lilly's skull and all of them ended up dead and gone.

You used to know who you were. You used to know who you loved and trusted and who loved and trusted you in return. You used to be a child and a boyfriend and friend and now you're none of those things…except your father's son.

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